by Sara Taylor
“Are you in the mood for some news?” Socks said.
“What is it?” I steeled myself, shutting off the part of my brain that kept whispering to me that I should go to my bunk, hide there, never come out.
“I got a call just now from Tom Manic,” Socks said. “We have an offer to play at the Donner Blitzkrieg Festival.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“It’s in England. Big, big festival. Big metal crowd,” replied Toad.
“Donner Blitzkrieg?” I said. “That’s a stupid name for a festival. Sounds like a Christmas thing. Santa’s reindeer?”
Toad stared at me. “Right, Rachel. Or it could be referencing the Donner Party. You know, the pioneer cannibals?”
Socks went on to outline the pay and the travel accommodations. “The thing is, we’d be leaving the day this tour finishes. Straight from JFK. The festival is two days after the last day of this tour.”
Edgar was concerned about that, but Socks assured him that after the festival gig, we’d be going right home.
“What other bands are playing?” I asked.
“A bunch of U.K. bands, a few Euro bands. A few from here,” Socks said. “The headliner is DED.”
xXx
Fern seemed thrilled by the news. Everyone in the band was stoked. I tried my best to be enthusiastic as well, but I needed to talk to her. We didn’t have a chance to be alone until after the show that night, when I essentially dragged her off the bus to have a cigarette with me.
“I can’t do it,” I whispered. “I don’t think I can be around them. I’ll be sick.”
She puffed on her cigarette, her eyes wide and white. “You can do it. We’ll be close to them. We can get them, Rachel. Don’t you see, it’s what we’ve been waiting for!”
I kept shaking my head, feeling myself trembling, my stomach in a vice of knots that hadn’t dissipated since I had heard that fucking song before dinner. “How? We can’t get them, Fern. How are we going to get them? There’ll be so many people around.”
Fern didn’t reply. She stared at me, studying my face. “I don’t care about jail,” she finally said. “I don’t care about prison. I don’t give a shit.” She blew smoke out of her mouth. “It’s worth it to me. And after everything we’ve already done — we’ve already done it, Rachel. We can’t go back. There’s only one place this is going to go.”
She was right. But this was different than a dopehead in an alley. I couldn’t imagine how we would do it. Fern seemed determined — even excited. I figured she’d find a way. She had twice before. I would leave it to her to figure it out.
xXx
Finally, the tour ended. All three bands had that weird, mostly bullshit camaraderie with one another on the last day that always exists when you’re saying goodbye to a bunch of people you could’ve been close with, could’ve made friends with, but didn’t. Marie-Lise had the same put-on, polite smile she’d had when we said hello as we said goodbye. Everyone was nice on that last night and had a drink together out by the buses, talking about the tour and the shows as merrily as if we had all hung out the whole time and shared something really special. Shit, maybe some of them had. I guess I had, in some ways. I glanced at Chris, who was glancing at me. Everyone congratulated us on getting onto the Donner Blitzkrieg Festival bill. They were all heading home — Ripsawdomy was going back into the studio before a European tour, and Gurgol was just going home to relax for the next few months.
Then the bus drivers arrived, and it was time for everyone to say goodbye. Chris and I hugged, and that annoying lump in my throat came back and he stared at me, frowning, perplexed, in the parking lot, and I could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. So we just left it at goodbye. I watched the Ripsawdomy bus pull out of the lot and drive away, as Gurgol and my band said their goodbyes. I watched it drive into the darkness. I could have cried.
FIFTY-TWO
We drove right to the airport, we said goodbye to Roger and Timmy, and the bus sped off, leaving us outside the terminal at 2 a.m. with a pile of guitar cases and stinking knapsacks, stiff with the sweat of unwashed clothes. It was hideous. Our show clothes actually had salt stains on them from the amount of perspiration soaked into them, which was totally gross. I didn’t know that could happen.
We checked in for our flight, Toad leading the way. I was somewhat irritated that he was coming with us, but it was better having him lead the way and taking care of things than to just literally fly blindly into some unknown situation. Having a tour manager was pretty awesome. Once our bags were checked, we went to our gate to rest. The flight was the next morning, so we hunkered down to get some sleep despite the fluorescent lighting. Socks pulled his hat down over his eyes and slumped in a plastic chair. Edgar full-on lay down on the floor, using his backpack as a pillow. Toad busied himself with his laptop, and I slouched my own ass down, ready to try to sleep.
Fern was buzzing with energy. Her knee bounced up and down, her eyes darting around. I could tell there was no way she would be sleeping. I don’t know why I was so tired. I was afraid of what was going to happen in England. I closed my eyes and tried to rest, eventually falling into a terrible sleep — the kind where you wake up with a throbbing headache and your back is killing you.
xXx
We were like zombies at the gate the next morning. I felt like pure shit. It didn’t look like anyone else felt much better. Socks and Edgar went miserably to find any semblance of reasonably priced coffee and food. Toad sat with his arms folded, his hood pulled up. Only Fern appeared unfazed, the same look of jittery anticipation still on her face.
Socks and Edgar returned with a greasy bag of breakfast sandwiches, the kind on a soggy croissant with bacon and cheese and egg and butter. The coffee tasted horrible. The five of us silently ate, not even bothering with chit chat.
We still had an hour or so till the flight once we’d finished eating, and I wandered to the ladies’ room to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. I looked in the mirror, acknowledging that I looked like shit. My hair didn’t even look real. It looked like someone had pasted dirty dull black string in clumps on my head. I still had the streaks of makeup from last night’s show on my face. The harsh light in the bathroom only made it worse.
But that’s the good thing about airports, any time of day. Most people look like bags of shit. People are sleeping on the floor no matter what time of day it is. People barf on planes. They have long flights. They’re hungry and tired. The most put-together, rich, professional people just go into survival mode. You’re dragging around heavy bags on your aching back. You’re sweating. Plus — you’re confused. Who the hell knows where they’re going in an airport? So at least no one stared at me too much.
Once done in the bathroom, I wandered a little and came upon a row of payphones. I dialled a collect call to my family’s house. My father accepted the charges, and I felt a tightness in my chest crawl up my throat.
“Rachel! How are you!” he cried, and I heard him call to my mother. “Marilyn, grab the other phone. It’s Rachel!”
There was a click as she picked up the other extension. Melissa was obviously beside her, and then I was lost in their voices, exclaiming happily they’d seen the band on the music channel on TV a few weeks ago, we were doing so well, they were so proud.
“How was the tour?” Mom asked.
“Fine,” I whispered in a thick voice, the lump in my throat swelling even larger, filling it up. It was difficult to breathe.
“We are so proud of you,” Dad agreed. “So! You must be on your way home now!”
My throat was dry, and I cleared it. “No,” I said hoarsely. “We’re actually going to England right now. We’re at the airport.”
“When are you coming home?” Melissa asked.
My eyes filled with tears, and I closed them, leaning my forehead against the phone. “In a few days.�
��
“Congratulations on everything that’s happening for you,” Mom said. “We miss you.”
“We love you,” Dad added.
“I love you too,” I said, tears rolling down my face in hot, wet tracks. Yes — premeditated murder is a really positive experience.
xXx
“Is that chick on crack?” Toad grumbled as we filed onto the plane. Fern was talking brightly to the attendants, to other passengers, just animated and sunny. I had a seat alone, thankfully — well, not alone, but not with Toad or any of the guys. I had an aisle seat, and to my right was an old couple who immediately put sleep masks on and would likely remain silent and stiff the whole ride. I pulled up my hood, put the scratchy airline blanket over me, and tried to fall asleep as well.
Once we were airborne, I unlatched my food tray and tried to rest my head on it. The white noise of the engine was nice, the gentle normal chatter I could barely hear around me was actually sort of soothing as well. I had the blanket over my head like a cheap ghost costume, minus the eyeholes. I saw leaves, orange and yellow and red — bright autumn leaves, spinning slowly and coasting along gently. I rose from the ground to take in more, and I saw that the leaves were moving along a gutter, a white cement curb, clear and cold-looking rainwater moving along the gutter, carrying the coloured leaves in it, slowly spinning and coasting. And my stomach sank as I saw the sewer coming up, ready to swallow the leaves. I tasted panic in my mouth as I reached forward to save them, to pluck them from the stream before they were lost forever, swallowed into that black cavernous abyss, but I had no hands, I reached out but saw nothing, I couldn’t see anything except those leaves, helpless and doomed, spinning and coasting to be lost forever, until the harsh, sharp shriek of someone’s baby jarred me awake, the blanket falling away from my face.
FIFTY-THREE
We took off from JFK feeling like shit and landed at Heathrow far worse. Socks, Toad, and Edgar looked grim as we all climbed into a taxi outside the terminal. Even Fern’s jittery grin was gone. It didn’t help that rain was pissing down, hammering on the roof of the taxi as we joined the stream of traffic. I was next to Fern in the backseat, and she put her head on my shoulder. Her big woollen cap was soaking wet from the downpour. It made my cheek itchy, but I didn’t push her away.
I stared out the window, first at the narrow buildings and the bright umbrellas, blurry through the glass, and then out at green soaking wet countryside. Here we were in England again and, once again, I didn’t feel too much like enjoying it.
After a long, silent ride, we arrived at the hotel. Toad explained that all the bands playing the festival were staying here and we had one room reserved for us that we’d all share. Toad went to check us in, and we stood in the front lobby in our damp jackets, swaying with exhaustion. Next to the lobby was the hotel bar. Music and laughter drifted out, and I noticed a bunch of musician-types hanging out in there. A few of them were also in the lobby, sprawled in the big stuffed chairs. Cigarette smoke lent a haze to everything. Or maybe I was just really tired.
It occurred to me that the DED guys must be at this hotel. Maybe even in the hotel bar. I looked a little closer at the people I could see through the doorway. Lots of black hair, lots of black clothes. Nobody recognizable. I looked over at Fern to see if she’d had the same thought, and our eyes met. She smiled at me brightly, looking angelic in her white cap. I smiled back wearily, unable to fathom where she was getting this energy from. Maybe she’d slept in the taxi.
We headed up to our room, which had two double beds and a cot. Toad griped as he set his shit up on the cot. I collapsed onto the bed and turned on the TV. Edgar and Socks sprawled on the other bed, and Fern headed into the shower.
She emerged a little while later, looking clean and gorgeous. She’d pulled on a tight black sweater and dark blue jeans, even put on some makeup. I could smell her vanilla perfume.
“Who wants to go have a drink?” she asked.
“Me,” Socks said, immediately perking up and jumping off the bed. There were no other replies — Edgar and Toad were both passed out.
The two of them left, and I fell asleep almost immediately.
xXx
I awoke in the dark room with Fern shaking my shoulder lightly. In the time I’d slept, it had gotten dark. My mind reeled — I needed more sleep.
“Wake up,” Fern whispered. “Rachel.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come have a smoke with me.”
“Okay.”
I forced myself to sit up. I could see the dark shapes of the guys sleeping, could hear Edgar’s light snoring. Fern pulled open the curtains and opened the sliding door that led out to the small balcony.
I followed her out there. It was so cold, I pulled up my hood. My gaze swept over the dark front lawn of the hotel below, along the driveway, lined with glowing streetlamps. Fern lit a cigarette and held it out for me. Then she lit one for herself.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I saw them,” she said, her eyes wide and unblinking. “Sid. And Ed. And the drummer. Downstairs, in the bar.”
I swallowed. An image flashed into my mind, a memory of Fern pressed into a couch, the big hand moving to pin hers down. I slammed that door shut fast. “You saw them?”
“Yes,” she breathed, puffing on her cigarette. “They were drunk.”
“Did they see you?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “They bought me a few drinks.”
My mouth moved, my lips forming words, but I said nothing. I tried to process what she was telling me. Her eyes had a strange light in them.
“They had no idea who I was,” she said, and giggled, a high note of hysteria in her tone. “I talked to them. They like our band. They know who our band is.”
I took a few deep drags of my cigarette, staring at her. “They do?”
“Yeah. And they didn’t recognize me. Can you believe it?” She was babbling, smiling, gushing like an excited fan, Can you believe it? I didn’t understand how she could talk to them. I didn’t understand why she was so happy now. I breathed in smoke, trying to understand. I tried to imagine being in the same room with Balthazar. Talking to him. Having a damn drink with him.
“Balthazar wasn’t there,” she said, as if I had spoken the thought aloud. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what questions to ask. I just stood there, listening to her. She prattled on about how Socks had been all excited to meet them and to talk to the drummer, and how she thought the one guy, Sid, had been hitting on her, and how they’d all gotten along like old friends.
“I don’t understand how they could have forgotten,” I finally said. “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t remember. I can’t forget it. I will never —”
“It is nothing to them,” Fern said. “They’ve done it a million times. Why would they remember me? Remember us? It was nothing.”
I felt tears sting my eyes, and Fern scowled, gripping my arm tightly. “They don’t remember, and that’s good. I was beside them tonight. We can get close to them.” She let me go and rested her elbows on the railing, looking out into the dark, blowing a stream of white smoke into the cold air. “I want this to be amazing, Rachel.”
“Amazing?”
She turned her face back to me, giving me a dark, humourless smile. I’d never seen that look on her face before, and it chilled me. I shuddered. “Yes, amazing. I want to kill them in front of the crowd.”
FIFTY-FOUR
We had to be up early the next morning, which was fine, because after my conversation with Fern, we’d gone back inside and slept hard through the night. None of us were jet-lagged by the time we went out front. There were a bunch of school buses to ferry the bands to the venue from the hotel.
The previous day’s rain had given way to a clear, sunny morning. The Donner Blitzkrieg Festival was taking place on a fairground — the m
ain stage was in a large auditorium, the second stage was in a smaller one on the grounds, and the field was going to be filled with vendors. There was a third building for the bands’ dressing rooms. There were twenty bands total on the bill — ten on the main stage, and ten on the second, and they would alternate throughout the day. While one band played, the other stage would be changing over for the next band. We were scheduled to play on the main stage, halfway through the day. Toad said we should be grateful the stages were indoors — I had to agree. We’d be playing while it was still daylight, and I imagined it would have been pretty disconcerting to play outside in the sun and cold.
We found out quickly that the day was going to be busy. We were shown to the little cubicle in the bands’ building that would be our dressing room. On the wall was our day’s schedule — meal times, interviews, and, of course, our stage time. A large area in this building was sectioned off for catering, so we all ate cafeteria-style, filling our trays and sitting at long tables with a huge assortment of people. Another area was sectioned off for media.
I’m sad to say that my last day of freedom was so anticlimactic — I ate bacon and eggs and did some really awkward interviews with U.K. press. We did a group photo of the four of us that day as well. I think Fern looks insane in it, but I’ve only seen it the once.
I had just finished our last interview — they had wanted to talk to all of us, but our set time was approaching, so I did the interview while the other three and Toad set up our gear on the stage. I was hurrying back to our small dressing room to touch up my makeup and wait for Toad to come get me. I was nervous, of course. I’d been flustered all day. I weaved around the people milling in the hallways, rounded a corner, and slammed into someone.
“I’m sorry,” I immediately spluttered, backing up and looking right up into the slender ivory face of Balthazar Seizure.
I had blocked his true image from my mind, demonizing him, remembering a twisted, monstrous face. His good looks stunned me. Our eyes locked. I remembered that eye contact, the blue eyes, the black hair. The leering, the lips stretching into a nasty, mocking grin. I remembered the dirty towel. I remembered the feeling of his breath on me. I could not tear my eyes away from his, even as my stomach churned, filled with ice.